


Weapon of choice

by orphan_account



Category: Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bad Ending, Cameras, Cock Worship, Collars, Dehumanization, Filming, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mind Break, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Post-Episode: s01e12 Apprentice Part 1, Psychological Torture, Riding, Slavery, Underage Rape/Non-con, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 15:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20010733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He wasn't Robin any more, he was what had been made from Robin after that weak and pitful design had been melted down. His master has reforged him into something better; a weapon worthy of his master's use.Weapons do not have feelings.He was not a bird. He was a sword.





	Weapon of choice

Today the Robin outfit has been laid out for him.

It’s been a while since he had last worn it, the brightness of it shines like the corpse of a bird compared to his usual uniform. The bright colors seem so childish to him now, something weak and frail and _funny_ in how pathetic they were. He still picks it up and puts it without a pause. It’s tight against his new muscle, but it still fits him. The brightly colored cloth seems to be seeped in memories so deeply he can almost smell the blood and taste the tears of his forging, and hear his former screams ringing in his ears.

By this point he’d worn it more for sex than for crime-fighting, when he sees it he feels a pleasant tingling feeling that he is about to get blissfully wrecked. It was what he wore when Slade had broken him, ground him down into powder, then reforged him into something better. Looking at it reminded him of the time he’d been afraid of Slade, before he understood what is meant to belong to the mercenary, before he’d given up everything he was to his owner’s control. He looks back on the boy that had worn those colors with pity, wondering how he could have possibly fought against the forging, how he hadn’t seen the beauty in being remade in Slade’s design, or the fierce joy that came from being owned entirely.

He wonders if this is how a sword must feel, looking back on the time it had merely been ore in the ground. He wondered if the iron feared the forging, before it understood what it meant to be the blade instead of the dross. He had been forged in fire and cooled in blood and now he was reborn.

He hadn’t thought of Batman in months, and _Bruce_ even less.

Batman’s design had been a pathetic, twisted thing, he had made Robin into a toy, like his batarangs, a thing to be used as a brief flash of distraction then forgotten about. Slade was the one who saw him as worth reforging. He’d taken that childish design and over the months melted him down and rebuilt him into a stronger shape, a better shape. He wasn’t a songbird any more, he was a sword. After Slade had made him into his weapon, he had been given a new sheath to wear in colors to match his owner and a place at his side where he would be close at hand when his owner wished to use him.

He had thought he knew what love was, but those memories of pathetic little flutters of feeling were nothing compared to how he felt now. Slade was something to him that was far more powerful than a father, or a lover, or any other bound to him by body fluids. Slade was his owner. He was his weapon. There could be no relationship more meaningful, more intimate than that.

He didn’t feel any jealousy towards his owner’s children, or the ones who sometimes shared his bed. He didn’t feel anything. He wasn’t a bird. He was a sword and weapons did not need feelings. They only needed to serve their purpose.

Today’s purpose involves a camera, but he hasn’t minded being watched for a long time. If he was called on to intimidate he would stand by his owner’s side, waiting to be drawn, but if that was the case he would be sheathed in his usual outfit. The Robin costume wasn’t for that, it was to make an example of a different kind.

Slade had given him his education in pleasure, training him in it as fiercely as he had been trained to fight. The weak thing that had been Robin had been disgusted at first at being used for his master’s pleasure, then afraid that he found himself liking it. His master had taught him his body was meant to be used, it was natural to enjoy the experience. Pleasure was the result of being of use to his owner.

More than once in his forging he’d denied he felt any pleasure when his master used him. Slade had made him watch the recordings over and over until he admitted to himself he’d loved the way his owner made him feel. His master liked him to know exactly how he looked when he was being taken apart, and he couldn’t deny the boy on screen with the flushed cheeks squirming and gasping around Slade’s cock had been him. At the time it had felt humiliating, then liberating to know that regardless of what he tried to be his body recognized its owner. Once he had begged Slade to be allowed to cum, now he could orgasm untouched merely from being witness to his master’s satisfaction. His owner’s pleasure was his pleasure completely and utterly. He can’t wait to prove it.

Slade sits and he curls up at his owner’s feet, like he should. It’s strange to think he once found this position uncomfortable and threatening, when now it feels like the natural place for him to be.

A soft click gets the camera rolling and Slade leans back in his seat, giving the automated recording device time to adjust to the lighting and focus. He gives the viewer a few more seconds to take in the scene, him in his full armor with Robin curled up at his feet like a friendly dog. He’d omitted the cape for visibility reasons but the uniform was still the same one Robin had been wearing when Slade first abducted him. It even still had the gashes through it where Slade’s other sword had cut into it. Once his master is satisfied the hypothetical viewer understands what he is seeing he reaches down and runs his fingers through his weapon’s hair.

It’s show time. The feeling is like being unsheathed; he knows his master’s will and he eagerly moves to complete it. A weapon should know his master’s will, to move when it was time to be used as naturally as any other part of his body. He rises into a kneeling position, his eyes fixated on his owner with absolute worshipful obedience. It doesn’t matter that Slade was wearing the mask, it doesn’t matter if he’s even looking at him, he _basked_ in the warmth of his master’s presence like a sunflower drinks in the sun.

Anticipation shivers on his skin, anticipation of the ecstasy of being used and _displayed_ as Slade’s prized weapon. He knows Slade is proud of him. Slade takes pride in the excellence of his design, and the skill of his technique, and the effort that had gone into shaping his weapon to that design. It was the pride a craftsman had in his craft, and it was the pride a weapon deserved. To not only belong and be used, but to be treasured by his owner, to be the best tool for the job was a special privilege. His master had many weapons, he had made many himself, but only the best were worthy of being his possessions. If he was a failure, if he was blunted or broken, he would be discarded. Until then his existence was proof of his worth. Slade had called him his second favorite blade, just after the sword whose name he wore. What better honor could there be for a weapon of his own construction?

Even after the forging was complete his master took the time to care for his blade, to carefully hone him to keep his edge sharp. That was how his owner showed his love for his weapon. Some of his most pleasant recent memories had been of Slade simply taking care of him, to ensure his weapon still had the best cut. The gentle pressure of the grindstone was the closest his master was to soft with him, to treat him with any more softness would ruin the temper of his forging. After the bodies had been cleaned up and his wounds tended to he felt the satisfaction of knowing his worth had been maintained. His master’s fingers through his hair feel like that honing, that care for his weapon. He is loved, he feels so very loved with the special love only being owned could give.

The camera may not have noticed but he notices when his master’s touch shifts, becoming demanding and he leans forwards with eagerness to satisfy his master’s unspoken desires. He undoes his master’s belt with his teeth, the motion is as familiar as breathing to him. He drapes himself over his owner’s inner thigh and nuzzles at the bulge between his master’s legs, making sure the camera can see as he laps at the rough Kevlar weave. He takes pleasure in how his master grows hard under his mouth as he makes the little grunts and moans of effort he knows his master expects of him. He hopes the camera is picking them up as he mouths at the length of his master’s cock.

His master pulls sharply on his hair and his neck snaps back, his tongue still hanging out. The grip in his hair stays firm as his master unhurriedly frees his cock to stand proudly hard against his body armor. Once that is done the hand in his hair lets go and he’s allowed to lap at the skin of his master’s glorious cock.

It feels so warm and thick against his tongue, it’s a pleasure to swallow around, to taste his master’s scent so strong and heavy on his tongue. He’s already hard himself, he sits his legs proudly parted so the camera can see how much he enjoys pleasing his master, but he doesn’t touch himself. He could cum without it, from the taste of his master on his tongue, or from a word or a gesture, but he wouldn’t touch himself unless he was ordered to. This was about pleasing his master in a way that looked good for the cameras.

He swirls his tongue around the head of his master’s cock, making sure the camera can fully see the motion. His owner is looking down at him, waiting, expectant, _demanding_. He doesn’t need the order to be voiced to know which order he’s being given.

“Mmmm.” He hums and licks his lips with a cheeky grin he knows the camera is catching. “Your cock is probably my second favorite taste in the world.”

“What’s your first?” Slade asks, and an excited shiver runs over him as Slade’s fingers stroke his hair.

“Your cum.” He says as he runs his tongue down his master’s full length.

Once there was a time when being so honest about sex felt embarrassing, but that had been another weakness stripped away by his reforging. He wasn’t ashamed of his filthy thoughts any more, he exulted in them. His body was made for his master to use in any way he wanted, it was natural for him to feel pleasure in being owned.

The weak pathetic thing that had been Robin had begged and broken and spilled out every one of the Bat’s secrets in a desperate plea for it to _stop._ Slade hadn’t cared, at the time he’d been grateful for that, that his weakness hadn’t doomed his family. Now he was more grateful he _hadn’t_ stopped. There was nothing he feared more than the thought of being left _half-forged_ , not yet his master’s weapon, no longer Bruce’s childish design, just a lump of molten metal left to set without a design at all. Robin had been such a weak, pitiful design it had taken his master years to correct it, to shape him into a tool of _worth_. That Slade had seen something as weak as Robin and thought it worth the effort to remake him had been the best thing that ever happened to him. The only thing Robin had ever done right was whatever had convinced Slade his weakness was in his design not his metal.

The few nightmares he still had were him waking up in the Manor as Robin and his master not knowing him. The thought of being the weapon his master had forged and not having his master to wield him filled him with horror. It only faded when he was being used by his master again. He was Slade’s weapon, his property, he belonged with his owner.

He takes his master’s cock all the way to the back of his throat and luxuriates in the taste of it and the tickle of white pubic hair against his nose. His master’s scent was thick and strong and never more delicious than when it smelt of arousal. It was a pleasure to take.

He’s too experienced to gag as he fucks his mouth with his master’s cock, setting the punishingly sharp pace that was his master’s favorite. Slade tasted so good it was harder _not_ to take him all the way down his throat until his master had no more to give him. He shows the camera how big and thick his master was, how his throat could barely fit his master’s cock and how clever he is for taking it all down inside him. His master’s fingers idly toy with his hair, making it clear to whoever he’s filming this for that he could just as easily be fucking his weapon’s mouth if he wanted. His master wants them to see what a good weapon he has created, that it can work so well to please its master.

He’s glowing with pride as he looks up at his owner’s face, worshiping his master with his eyes just like he was worshiping his master’s cock with his mouth. It doesn’t matter if his master is looking at him. He’s not seeking approval, he just loves being able to look at his owner. He was often a hidden blade kept concealed until it was time for him to slit a throat. It was a joy to be able to enjoy his owner’s closeness like this. It was an honor to be touched by him.

His master’s fingers tighten in his hair and pull his head back again. His lips leave his master’s length, a string of saliva briefly connecting them, before it breaks. His master pulls up and he lurches forwards like a dog, bracing himself against the chair.

His master pulls him up to sit straddled on his lap with his legs spread wide so there’s one on each side of his master’s legs. His owner’s hand gliding down his back tells him how to arch his back to present the best picture for the camera. His hands rest against his master’s thighs, rolled into tiny fists rather than being so crass as to grab him for support.

He feels his master’s hands cup his buttocks, pushing him in against his master’s chest before slipping a hand into the scale patterned underwear and pulling it aside enough to reveal his hole. His master’s finger circles it and his hips jerk instinctively towards it. His master pulls away before he can be penetrated with a finger. The old him would have whined in frustration but he was a weapon and weapons didn’t care for their own pleasure. He’s obediently still as his master applies pressure to his lower back and he slowly lowers himself onto his master’s cock. He feels it press into him inch by torturous inch on display for the camera. His legs spread wide across Slade’s lap so the camera can clearly see his owner’s cock press into him, that it’s his ecstatic shivering body Slade is fucking into.

He hasn’t had any preparation apart from what lubrication his saliva’s provided, and the stretch of it would be painful if it wasn’t his _master_ inside him. His body knew who it belonged to and it accepted his master all the way in. An ecstatic shiver runs over him at getting to be the sheathe for his master’s cock. He loves being of use to his master, he loves knowing that his master had pleasure from using him. The pleasure he feels from being penetrated is the pleasure of being used. He pants with eagerness but obediently lowers himself at the directed pace until their hips are resting flush against each other.

He looks at his master with undisguised adoration. The camera can’t see his face but that doesn’t matter. He loves his master with all his being. He loves being of use to him, he loves being used by him, he loves, loves, loves. His master’s hand rises to his cheek, and strokes across it. God, his glove felt so good. He feels his master’s love in return.

Slade’s hand trails down and rests against his throat. The collar is the only addition to the costume; a simple black band that clung as close to his skin as paint. In its center is Slade’s mark and its that part his master’s fingers press into. He obediently lets his head loll back, letting the camera see his master’s dark glove closed around the pale skin of his throat, and moans.

It’s good, it’s so good to have his body be the sheath of his master’s cock. It’s good to be of use. It’s good to be used by his master. He could cum just from this, but he wasn’t so crude as to cum without permission. His master’s hand gives another order, and his body moves to obey it faster than thought, almost before the order is given. He leans into the grip around his throat until it’s choking him, at the same time he raises his hips enough that some of his master’s cock slips out of him. His eyes fixate on the mask of his owner as he rocks backwards with his whole body, sheathing his master’s cock back inside him. He makes sure the camera sees how he’s putting his everything into this, that he’s willingly doing his very best to please his master.

He starts the ride slow, to give the camera time to adjust. His training had included how you acted on camera, but once he’d established it was him moving he gets to fuck himself faster. The camera was tricky, he had to look good on display, but he also had to please his master. That was a given, he didn’t have to think about _that._ He needed to please his master like he needed to breath, no, more than that. He willingly leans into the hand around his throat to choke himself, all for his master’s pleasure.

He pants and moans, letting his honest sounds come out. His body trembles ecstatically around his master’s cock. It’s good to be used, it’s good to be of use. His head feels light, but his body is full of lightning, so, so _good._

“Master!” He screams as the pleasure overtakes him. “Master, master, master!”

Slade’s fingers press into the side of his neck in a wordless signal that he should use his master’s name. At the same time his master rolls his hips upwards. His eyes roll back in his head.

“Slade!” He moans. His owner’s name felt right in his mouth, a single sweet syllable perfect for him to scream. “Slade, Slade, SLADE!” Then a long animal howl of pure pleasure as the sensation overtakes him, ending in a broken sobbing of his master’s name as he clings desperately to Slade’s shoulders.

He keeps repeating his master’s name, pleading, begging, sobbing with a single syllable on his lips. His master doesn’t look up at him, his only reaction is to raise one hand to rest in a possessive claw over his weapon’s back as a reminder to the camera of his ownership. His weapon rejoices in it.

He’s far beyond needing something so obvious as a sound or gesture to mark his master’s pleasure. He feels it in his master’s cock as its sheathed inside him. It feels good deep inside him, it’s good to be of use, to know the hardness of his master’s cock was because his owner wished to make use of his weapon’s body. He was serving him, he was bringing his master pleasure, that brought him pleasure.

It doesn't fade when his master starts to use him roughly. The strength of his master’s ownership was more pleasure. Bending back with his legs spread around his master’s waist he looks straight at the camera, his pale skin flushed, his eyes dark and his erection tenting his pants. He cheekily winks at the camera and runs his tongue over his lips before arching back up, meeting his master’s thrusts with his own. The meeting of their bodies is rough and sharp and violent, but that is a weapon’s love. His owner would not use him to be gentle. He was called on to be a thing of sharp edges and directed force. His master’s tool, in all things obedient to his will, his use _displayed_ for whoever is watching. See me, he wants to demand of the camera, see how well I am of use, see how I serve my master!

He reaches his own completion when his master fills him with a grunt. Feeling his master cum made him come undone. He pants for breath in his master’s lap as he stares adoringly at his master’s mask. His master wordlessly directs him to slowly raise himself up to let his master’s softened cock slip out of him and allow his master’s spilled seed to ooze out of his puckered red hole, where the camera could see it. His thighs are shivering as he obeys.

His master turns him around in the afterglow, spreading his legs further so the camera can see he’s cum from the penetration and smeared semen over his own stomach. Slade allows him to rest against his master’s chest and he pants for breath with his cheeks flushed with the pleasure of being used. As he nuzzles contentedly against his master’s neck, Slade takes off the green domino mask to make it clear to the camera that this is _him,_ not just some other boy in a Robin’s uniform. The flush stands out brightly on his cheeks as he looks at the camera with eyes lazily half-lidded, resting like a content cat.

He makes no attempt to resist as his master’s hands run over his thighs. His master presses two fingers into him and he shudders as they penetrate his still orgasm sensitive insides. The fingers of the glove squelch wetly as they pump in and out of him. His master’s cum dribbles out and runs across his thighs and he is gasping, already arching into the touch as he clings to his master’s shoulders. His master’s eyes don’t leave the camera, Slade wants this to prove how much he owns the thing that had once been Robin.

His master’s fingers ruthlessly drive into his prostate and he cums dry with a howl that’s not sure if it’s pain or pleasure, maybe its both, maybe they’ve always been the same thing. His thighs shake violently as Slade continues to stimulate him through the orgasm, his entire body doubling over and tensed in a stiff and shaking ball. He can barely breathe, he fights for breath in tiny, averted gasps as his body won’t stop shaking for long enough for him to breathe in all the way. His hands clench tightly around his master’s shoulders as pleasure-pain whites out his senses.

He doesn’t know how long it is before his master finally lets him rest and he collapses bonelessly against his owner’s shoulder, desperately sucking in breath with his full body on shameless display for the camera. His master’s hand raises to stroke his cheek, smearing cum through his weapon’s dark hair as he does. With the same hand he replaces the domino mask, letting his weapon catch his breath as he lets the camera take in the sight.

After a minute his master raises his hand and clicks off the camera. His weapon relaxes now he is no longer called on to be displayed. His thighs barely shake as he gets to his feet, moving to his place at his master’s side as naturally as iron moves to a magnet.

He doesn’t expect praise or an explanation any more than Slade’s other weapons would. He’s already been honored enough by his use, to expect his master to _talk_ to his tools like some Arkham kook was an insult to his master’s honor. When Slade unclips the memory card from the camera he knows his master’s words aren’t meant for him, merely musing out loud.

“It’s time to show Batman my design.” His master says.


End file.
